


as fate would have it

by flintandfuss



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Friendship, Gen, Idiots in Love, Lovers to Friends, M/M, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, The Crucible Casts Platonic Roommates, Watford Fifth Year, Watford Sixth Year
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:21:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22274749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flintandfuss/pseuds/flintandfuss
Summary: The last thing Simon Snow expected when Baz Pitch (vampire, evil git) stole Philippa’s voice was for the Crucible to cast Simon as Agatha’s new roommate. Everyone knows roommates are platonic. So much for their relationship.Baz Pitch wants nothing more than to escape the constant presence of the Mage’s Heir. Which would be a lot easier if his roommate, Penelope Bunce, wasn’t best friends with him. (And if he wasn’t literally stalking Baz for no snakes-damned reason.)The Crucible didn’t cast Simon and Baz together. That, more than anything, should’ve been a warning.
Relationships: Penelope Bunce & Simon Snow, Penelope Bunce & Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Simon Snow & Agatha Wellbelove, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 13
Kudos: 48





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Things I shouldn't be doing: starting a multi-chapter snowbaz fic. Things I'm doing anyway: that.

**Simon**

Tears streak down Philippa Stainton’s cheeks, but I can’t seem to focus on her. I should. Philippa’s hurting. She’s been attacked on Watford grounds. But I’m distracted by the sensation in my stomach, sharp and twisting like Baz has his fingers tangled up in my intestines and won’t stop yanking. Only they aren’t yanking me towards him. They’re yanking me away. 

This is his fault, I know it. What happened to Philippa. What’s happening to me. He hasn’t used his wand or a spell or that stupid sneer of his, but I  _ know— _

“Bloody hell,” I gasp. Sound wooshes back into the world, like the wind and the birds held their breath at Philippa’s soundless collapse. I clutch my abdomen, digging my fingers in under my ribcage. It doesn’t help. 

“Baz.” My teeth are vices around his name. “What did you do?”

His eyebrows huddle together and it’s enough to distract me from the tugging in my gut. He’s never given himself away like that before.  _ I’ve gotcha now, you evil git. _

I’m not on a witch hunt, no matter what Penny thinks. She’s been swayed by Baz’s posh hair and his high marks; it could happen to anyone. But I can see in his eyes that he’s the reason Philippa’s on the ground, white with shock and sobbing soundlessly.

I charge forward, reaching for the Sword of Mages, only . . . I’m not moving towards him. And I’m not charging either. My feet are shuffling backward, trainers squeaking on the wet grass. I’m following the magnet in my gut like my feet have grown a mind of their own. 

“Oi!” I shout. 

There’s no one around to hear. We’re on the Great Lawn near the main gates, where Baz thought he could enact his evil plan without witnesses. And he’s spelled me away somehow. I’m coming up on the drawbridge, feet echoing the frantic pace of my thoughts. Baz could do anything to poor Philippa. She doesn’t have a scream left in her. He could drag her into the cluster of ancient yew trees and drain her dry. (I know he’s a vampire no matter what Penny says.) And now he’s given himself time to dispose of the body. 

I spot a shape across the courtyard. I don’t even know for sure that it’s her, but— 

**“Ms. Possibelf!”** The words come out magickal and all of a sudden she’s running. 

I am too. The wrong way. 

“Baz!” I gasp when we meet, pointing frantically behind me. “He did something to Philip-ahh—” We’re both still moving, pulled in opposite directions by magic we don’t understand. Mine drags me past the White Chapel along a familiar path. Baz’s spellwork is unshakeable, pulling me gut-first towards. . . Mummer’s House?

Is that really his evil plot? To lock me in my tower and hope no one will notice if I rot?

I breach the dormitory door, leaving everything else outside. I hope Ms. Possibelf got to Philippa in time. I hope she turns Baz in and the Mage casts him out of Watford. Then maybe Penny and I can— 

My stomach hooks sideways on the third floor and my feet don’t question it. They know the way. But it makes no sense. Why would Baz send me to Agatha’s room? Does he want to distract me? Is he trying to get between us? We’ve only been together a few months, but I’ve seen the way he watches her, the smarmy bastard. 

Then I remember. His cousin lives on this hall. Dev Grimm. That must be it. Baz Pitch tied a noose around my middle and sent me off like a pig to slaughter. 

My eyebrows scrunch with the effort it takes to focus, but I manage the words. “In justice. In courage. In defense of the weak. In the face of the mighty. Through magic and wisdom and good.” The Sword of Mages appears in my hand, heavy and right. I flex my grip and test a swing, feeling better already. The Old Families can send whatever they like at me. I know how to fight evil things.

And then I’m stumbling to a stop, jerking back my blade. Agatha’s standing in front of me, framed by the golden light of her bedroom. 

“Simon,” she says, sounding surprised, but also not. She massages her stomach absently, frowning. “Are you here to see me?”

_ Of course not, _ I want to say, but that’s a lie, innit? Because when she steps back through the door to sit primly on the edge of her bed, my stomach tugs me after her. 

I sheathe my blade clumsily and collapse against her, jostling the bed enough for a sparkly pink pillow to tumble into the nightstand. Normally she’d be right narked, but she must feel as desperate for me as I am for her, because she just laces her fingers through mine. 

The tugging in my gut vanishes. 

“I don’t understand. Aggie, what—?”

“What happened to Philippa?” she interrupts. She sounds so bloody certain. 

“What?” 

I think about the terrible squeak Philippa’s voice made as it ripped out of her. I’ve seen enough curses to know that wasn’t something a stint in hospital will fix. 

“Agatha, how did you know—?” 

But I know, don’t I? I’ve never had a roommate, but I know how this works. The Crucible draws you together. Two souls, fated to be friends. 

She squeezes my fingers and my gut twists. Not a painful twist or a happy one. Not the giddy swoop I used to get daydreaming about dating the prettiest girl at Watford. 

“Oh.” 

She doesn’t love me. She can’t, can she, if I’m here?

Aggie’s smile is sad, but not surprised. “I guess we’re breaking up.”

“Yeah.” I guess we are. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Agatha**

I love Simon, truly I do, but there’s only so much a girl can take. 

_ “Simon.” _

I’m so exasperated I talk right over him. We’re leaving the football pitch and he’s nattering on about the injustice of Marcus Grimm discovering him before he cracked Baz’s mobile password. (A footballer using the locker room at halftime, how devilish.) 

Simon goes silent, mouth hanging open while his brain catches up. 

Now that I have his attention, I have to think of something to say. What will stop this conversation in its tracks?

“The only cruel thing Basilton did today was show up in those football socks.” 

I overheard a third-year whisper that to her friend at today’s scrimmage. That it was painful how fit Baz was, knowing he’d never look her way. Not that it isn’t true. He has a well-turned calf, as my friend Minty would say. (She went a bit mad for historical romances last summer. I don’t mind. Everyone knows Darcy’s lush.) It’s just . . . I don’t know. Don’t people ever get tired of looking at other people?

Simon sputters, going red. His jaw juts out in that way of his, the one that makes me feel a little guilty and a little scared. I know I’ve let him down again. I know he’ll blaze forward anyway. The only thing I don’t know is how quickly he’ll burn himself out. 

Simon crosses his arms and stews for a minute before latching onto the new topic. Which was  _ not _ the point. 

“Yeah, but did you  _ see _ his thighs, Aggie? Four slide tackles and he doesn’t have a welt on him. It’s not natural! I bet the Old Families have a dark ritual—” 

He’s a dog with a bone, I swear. 

“I don’t know anything about dark magic,” I interrupt. I can practically feel Mum’s chiding eyes on me. I toss my hair and lift my chin. “But I’m sure Penny does.” 

It’s terribly selfish of me to foist him off on Penny, but when Simon’s on about Baz, it’s every girl for herself. 

Apparently, I’ve sacrificed my good decorum for nothing. Simon’s face scrunches up. I can actually  _ see _ the word “vampire” in the shape of his mouth. That’s how many times he’s gone on about it.

“What did the Mage want this morning?” I hurry on before he can start. Discussing the Mage is almost as bad as discussing Basilton, but it’s the one distraction that never fails. And after 90 minutes of “Baz this” and “Baz that”—not to mention the unidentified  _ something _ Simon stuffed into my purse at halftime—it’s time for extreme measures. 

It works like a charm. Not an actual charm, like that ghastly werewolf fur Penny tried to make me carry at  _ that time of the month. _ The kind of charm Normals think of, like a crystal that glimmers in the sunlight and catches your eye. 

Simon brightens. “A pack of ne’er do wolves have moved into the Wavering Wood. The Mage figures if I plan it right, I can extract some venom before I clear ‘em out. They paralyze their victims. Dead useful, that.” 

“Useful for  _ what?” _

Just when I think I’ve gotten used to everything, Simon proves me wrong. I’m reminded uncomfortably of Dad’s favorite anecdote: a sleeping spell that didn’t take and a patient who woke up in the middle of surgery. Once, I told him he should have used anesthesia. (That’s what they do on Grey’s Anatomy.) Dad looked as exasperated as I felt when he launched into the same tired speech about how, “We have magic for a reason, Agatha.” 

Simon shrugs, but he’s grinning. Of course. If ne’er do wolves weren’t so notoriously lazy, I bet he’d be swinging his sword at them this very minute, not thinking twice about death lurking in every direction. 

Simon starts on about ridding the world of dark creatures. I don’t mean to tune him out, but my mind is already drifting to which scented candle will cover the stench of wet dog and forest rot. Maybe I should text Minty. She thinks I go to some hyper-religious boarding school, so she’s always willing to overnight me contraband. I could ask her to visit that posh candle shop we like . . .

“. . . as if that matters,” Simon is saying, “with the Humdrum at large and a vampire ready to drink Penny for a midnight snack . . .” 

I sigh. If there’s one thing living with Simon Snow has taught me, it’s that I shouldn’t have needed a magickal artifact to tell me we weren’t right for each other. 

* * *

**Baz**

When I return from football, Bunce is sitting cross-legged on her bed, digging through the remains of what I imagine the library might look like after an attack by a particularly tenacious forest imp. 

“Oh good,” she says when she sees me. “You’re back.”

“We won,” I announce, unzipping my bag and upending my football kit into the laundry bin. 

She shrugs—a terrible habit she picked up from a worse Chosen One—as if to say, “Of course you did.”

I take it for a compliment, nodding my acknowledgment as I fling open my wardrobe in search of a stain bar. Bunce glances up and allows herself to be distracted by the task at (my) hand. 

“Can you do my sweater? It’s still covered in merewolf saliva.”

“Is it?” I say sourly, digging the sweater out from under her bed. “I couldn’t tell. It’s not like I have a particularly acute sense of smell.” 

It smells so foul that I’m tempted to cast a spell, but I can’t think of one that won’t scour the fabric like steel wool. She won’t thank me if her sweater sprouts holes like every cuff and collar I owned third year. 

She waves me off, as unrepentant as always. “I’ve been  _ busy. _ And your detergent smells nicer than mine.”

“That we can agree on.”

Bunce is a fair roommate, all told. She could be tidier, but she studies as much as I do (if rarely for actual lessons) and since her only friend has his own tower, she never has anyone up to our room. (The Mage claims Snow’s room assignment wasn’t special treatment. I say that’s bollocks. Mummer’s Tower has its own en suite.) 

But Bunce and I weren’t actually  _ friends _ until second year when she cornered me on my way to the (tragically communal) bathroom before breakfast.

“Simon and I saw you sneak into the Mage’s office last night. No one can get past the enchantments unless they’ve been invited. How did you manage?”

“I was invited.” It wasn’t even a lie. I just happened to have an invitation that didn’t expire.

She scoffed. Right in my face. Sometimes, she has the same appalling sense of self-preservation as her best friend. 

“By whom?” she asked, arch as any Pitch.

I sneered at her. “Show me yours and I’ll show you mine.” Then I rolled my eyes mightily, wondering why she looked so surprised. “Please, Bunce, you think you’re subtle? How do you get past the residents’ wards at Mummer’s?”

Penelope Bunce shot me a look I can still picture with perfect clarity. It said,  _ “I’m intrigued,” _ but also,  _ “Fuck me over and you’ll never know a moment’s peace.”  _

“My mum.” 

I couldn’t help it. I laughed, a short, surprised sound that burned up like flash paper. 

“Mine too,” I admitted. 

As it happens, Mitali Bunce is something of a genius with spellwork. And, well, once you’ve missed breakfast to discuss the finer details of family magic, friendship is the only logical course.

Abysmal taste in companions aside, Bunce has never given me cause to regret it. Truly, I think the Crucible stuck us together because no one else could approach our level of intellect. (Or our fondness for arguing about it.)

Which is why I add my (superior) washing powder to the clothes basket and ask, “Was that all, Bunce?”

She cocks her head and studies her sea of books, as if a change in angle might reveal unexpected landfall beyond a cresting page.

“What’s the likelihood of modifying a fairytale spell? A reversal, for example, or an amplification. To affect a broader area,” she clarifies, marking a passage in a book that most definitely belongs to the Watford Library. “Not to make the spell itself more potent.” 

With a quick  **‘faith, trust, and pixie dust,’** I float the laundry basket in front of me. (Bunce never nags about wasting magic; she’s as loose with spells as I am.) I sift through my mental repository for an historic precedent. Perhaps . . . 

“Fiona told me about an American spell from the 90’s. ‘Psych!’” I pause, dusting off the finer details. My aunt was absolutely trolleyed at the time, so some mental restoration is required. “Or ‘not!’” I say at last. “I think the inflection was more important than the phrasing. But it reversed the effects of whichever spell was just cast.” 

She frowns. “I’ve never heard of that spell.” 

I scoff. “Of course not. Even if it were local, it’s been considered gauche since before we were born. Not even  _ your _ boyfriend is pedantic enough to try that one.”

She could easily throw that back in my face— _ "You _ tried it, didn’t you?” (because of course I had)—but Penelope Bunce on a mission has a one-track mind. Her frown gives way to a contemplative look. She taps the wrong end of her pen against her lips, leaving tiny dabs of purple ink. 

“You don’t suppose there’s a modern equivalent?” 

She tugs a thin book from the stack on her bed, paying no mind as its fellows lurch drunkenly toward the wall. I hit it with a quick,  **“Straighten up.”**

“I’ve read ‘Little Red Riding Hood’ a dozen times, but the only spells I can find are,  _ ‘what big teeth you have’ _ and  _ ‘to grandmother’s house we go.’ _ Not exactly the makings of a brilliant offense.”

I pick up her discarded frown and try it on for size. “What’s this about, Bunce?”

Innocence wipes the curiosity from her face. 

“Research,” she says mildly. 

As if I don’t know what that means. I glare at her. 

“I’ve told you a thousand times, I’m not helping the Chosen One play errand-boy for the Mage.” You’d think I’d used up all my disdain on the words  _ ‘Chosen One’ _ but I scrounge up enough for  _ ‘the Mage’ _ too. 

“It’s not an errand,” she protests. “It’s a quest.”

I cross my arms, unimpressed. My laundry basket bumps at the door, suddenly eager to escape. 

“A quest to rid the world of any mage or magickal creature  _ he _ deems unworthy. Ironic, after the smear campaign he launched against my mother for protecting Watford from incompetents.” 

Bunce follows my example, crossing her arms and straightening her hunched shoulders. The pen in her hand bleeds purple onto her sleeve. If I wasn’t so annoyed with her, I’d hit it with an  _ “out, out, damned spot.” _

“It’s not a smear campaign if it’s true,  _ Basil.” _

My expression must turn mutinous because she throws up her hands. “This has nothing to do with your Mum. Or bloody  _ politics. _ It’s just a little ne’er do wolves’ den in the Wavering Wood. You  _ know _ they wreak hell on the magickal ecosystem.”

She’s not wrong, but I’m too busy stomping into a strop to say so. Why does everything come back to Simon fucking Snow? I’ve never said two words to the tosser—insults and misdirection notwithstanding—but all of a sudden he’s latched onto me like I’m the crowned prince of the Old Families, here to exact vengeance on all that’s right and good. 

It’s only gotten worse since his dramatic room reassignment, and I’d already stooped to asking Fiona for help. It’s  _ his _ fault, what happened to Philippa. If only he’d given me a moment’s peace I wouldn’t have accepted that bloody tape recorder in the first place. It’s the Mage we’re after, not his echo. 

“Alright,” Bunce says as if everything’s settled Because She Says So, “so Little Red Riding Hood—”

I’m in no mood to listen.

“It’s none of my concern,” I say, yanking open the door. With a flourish of my wand, the laundry basket sails into the hallway. I ride the momentum of its streaming shirttails, leaving the door ajar so I won’t slam it. 

“Come on, Basil!” she calls after me. “You won’t be helping the Mage, you’ll be helping Watford.” When that doesn’t work, she tries a desperate, “Treat it a thought exercise!” 

I ignore her, stalking down the hall after my laundry. 

As if I’d betray the Families to help the Mage’s Heir, even by proxy.

_ The Mage’s Heir _ has stalked me through the Catacombs three times this week. By yesterday, I was shaking with thirst. I’d have bitten him out of sheer desperation if Bunce hadn’t lifted a carton of pig’s blood from Cook Pritchard’s stores. (Let’s see how he likes Sunday breakfast without blood pudding, the glutton.) 

And I didn’t need my cousin to tell me that Snow rifled through my football bag. My clothes were upended, my conditioner was missing, and the whole locker room reeked of Snow’s magic.  _ ‘Subtle’ _ is yet another word that’s escaped his vanishingly small vocabulary. 

The air in the basement is as dry and electric as always, sucked to a husk by the lumbering dryers. Static roughs up my unconditioned hair and holds it hostage. It clings to my neck and skims along my cheek until I give into its hostile demands and twist my hair into a loose bun. 

Simon Snow is an absolute barbarian. Perhaps he’s enacting some daft plot to make my hair as disastrous as his. With the tortured state of his curls, I wouldn’t be surprised if he washes them with school-issued bar soap. My fingers twitch at the thought, itching to smooth the bronzed snarl into something less reminiscent of matted fur. It would be a public service. In my head, my fingers tangle in those smoothed curls and yank his head aside, holding him fast so I can sink my breath into his neck. My teeth itch just thinking about it. My mouth tingles in anticipation. 

Nicks and Slick, I must be hungrier than I thought. 

I clench my teeth and suck in a breath, inhaling the putrid scent of sweat and merewolf saliva in a pathetic attempt to get my thoughts under control.  _ You’re better than this, _ I tell myself.  _ You’re not some prepubescent vampire unable to control his bloodlust. _

My fangs first popped around the same time other, equally embarrassing things started popping up, and frankly, it’s been two years of utter hell. It’s like puberty took my longing and loathing and every kind of lust, poured on a healthy dose of self-disgust, and stuck it on spin cycle. 

Double rinse. Repeat.

Setting my actual laundry to double rinse, I turn on the machines and sink to the floor, thunking my head back against the washer as it grumbles about its newest task. The groan of machinery makes my teeth rattle, but I don’t move. Maybe the spin cycle will rattle these self-destructive thoughts loose. 

Sometimes, when I’m feeling particularly maudlin, I wonder if my mother knew the truth of what I am. Not that I’m a vampire—she would have torched me with the rest of the monsters if she knew I’d been infected. That I’m gay. 

Did I toddle after Fiona’s revolving door of Normal boyfriends, smiling and snuggling like Mordelia? Is that why she fought so hard for the roommate reforms? Or was she simply tired of doling out detentions when house monitors turned in students for fooling around with their roommates?

It’s ironic, after everything the word “reform” has come to stand for, that the first Watford reform was her idea. But you’d have to be backward and blind not to see that the Crucible was outdated. The founders who had spelled the thing were entrenched in fifteenth-century gender norms and the World of Mages has taken it for granted ever since.

“Our children’s innocence is at stake! Yes, Davy, _yours_ _too._ If Lucy’s fool enough to give you any.” (I’ve read the minutes. She was brilliant.)

“It’s not a magickal artifact’s place to out eleven-year-olds,” Penny likes to argue. As if she didn’t march up to me on the Great Lawn that day, hair flaming and expression quizzical, and ask outright, “Do you not like girls, or is it just me?” 

Bunce is brilliant, but she’s almost entirely lacking in self-awareness. Maybe that’s what she and the Chosen One have in common. 

Even in my own head, it always comes back to Simon Snow.

**Author's Note:**

> You’re telling me that no parent has stormed the gates over an omniscient magickal artifact playing matchmaker with Watford students? 
> 
> Welcome to my AU where the roommates are platonic and the genders don't matter. If you enjoyed your visit, I'd be honored to hear your feedback!


End file.
